


30 Tales of Sweet Ginger

by Kaennar



Category: The Adventures of Puss in Boots (Cartoon)
Genre: 30 Drabble Fics OTP Challenge, Angst, Canon Compliant, Domestic Life at San Lorenzo, Drama, Ensemble Cast, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Humor, One Word Prompts, Romance, Sweet Ginger, canon pairings - Freeform, headcanons ahoy, i'm accepting suggestions!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-09-05 00:55:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16800478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaennar/pseuds/Kaennar
Summary: A collection of unconnected little snapshots of Puss and Dulcinea's domestic life in San Lorenzo. Also features other characters and pairings. Have suggestions? Let me know!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thirty unconnected little snapshots of Puss and Dulcinea's domestic life in San Lorenzo. The idea is inspired by 30 Days of Demonfire, written by a favourite author of mine, KevlarMasquerade. If you ship Damian Wayne and Mar’i Grayson (and you gotta admit, their shipname Demonfire is pretty wicked) then that’s the perfect ficcy for you. Oh, and yes, I totally ripped the title off of her story. I’ve made sure she knows, though, so don’t sue me. :)
> 
> Anyway. I decided there was no way I won’t do it too. It sounded too fun. So I’ll be posting a drabble a day for 30 not-necessarily-consecutive days, because this fandom desperately lacks fics. Around 2000 words each at max. But be warned, there is no plot. Just a collection of sweet random little nothings. And because this entire thing is unplanned, this oughta be fun. 
> 
> And I will do my best to keep this plotless. Sorry, there would be no end of the world scenarios for this story, just romance and domestic life. Just warning you, in case that’s not your thing. For once, I’d like to try writing things that are short and unconnected. I’d like to see how I do once liberated from the chains of plot. And I spit out that word out disgustedly. Really, though I always love writing plotty stories, I find that plots leave no room for artistic spontaneity. Which is maybe why I’m sorta kinda uninspired when writing For San Lorenzo. I’ve got everything in FSL planned to a tee, but I just. can’t. seem. to write it. properly. 
> 
> Through this, I’d like to discipline myself, to learn how to complete an idea in roughly around just a thousand words, to say more by writing less, and to get rid of my extremely toxic ‘more words = more productive’ mentality. 
> 
> I’d occasionally feature other characters, but I’m pretty sure this will revolve mainly around the Sweet Ginger couple. If you have any suggestions or one-word prompts, let me know and I’ll see if I can write a story around it. I’d like to stick to the canon rating though, so nothing M-rated will be accepted. It’s also okay if it’s not centred around the Sweet Ginger couple, I don’t care. I appreciate every kind of review except for the bashy, hatey ones, but I like criticisms! Don’t be afraid to tell me what I’m doing wrong, and I’ll consider. Okay, I think that’s everything I wanted to say. Enjoy, leave a review, or be that quiet reader—whatever floats your boat, I’ll just be writing. :3

word count: 1,566 words.  
date written: nov 24, 2018.  
note: ended up a lot angstier than originally intended. oops.

* * *

There were still those days when she would simply lift her eyes to the sky and be reminded of what she’d lost.

She remembered it very well. She remembered _him_ very well. Whenever faced by the brilliant night sky, her eyes would automatically focus to stare at that empty spot where he used to be.

Where he _should_ be.

Esteban _._

She could still hear his voice sometimes. How enthusiasm bubbled under his words. How his every magnificent sentence burst into raring exclaim. How he was so eager to fulfil her every wish, how so alike her he was.

There were nights where she would even skip her usual flower bedtime story session to just sit on her special spot on her boulder as always, reflective blue eyes fixated at the empty spot where he should be twinkling and winkling and perpetually outshining all the others. 

But he wasn’t.

He’s gone.

The days passed. That… _dream_ incident with Esteban, her wishing star…quickly lost its popularity among the San Lorenzan gossipers as time swiftly flew by, swept away by the new adventures brought forth to the town by Puss in Boots. Dragons. Mermaids. Moles and Megamicres. Prophecies foretelling doom. Fartholomew Fishflinger. All that fuss about a fake Sino.

Uli, then the Bloodwolf.

And, finally, the town’s latest gossip: the portal to the Netherworld.

Very soon, it was like Esteban had been someone from so, so long ago—like he’d never even existed at all.

Dulcinea couldn’t blame the San Lorenzans for not dwelling over her loss like she was, though. She was the only one who ever knew Esteban, after all. She was the only one who, every night, would so fervently wish for…for that one thing that…

That she…

That everything would be…

But then, every time her train of thought intended to go down _that_ path, she cut the thread before it reached down the rabbit hole any further.

It was unbecoming for someone the likes of her to think of…such things…after all.

Besides, she herself got caught up with all the town’s domestic shenanigans after that ‘dream’ incident, whether that incident with Esteban was a dream or not. The adventures just continued to pile up day after day after _day_ , until finally, one day…

She found out that her treasured memory of Esteban was already gathering dust from where she’d subconsciously stashed it on a forgotten corner of her mind.

The first thing she did that wonderful morning—after getting through her usual grooming routine—was to clean up her room. And as she’d been sweeping and dusting the corners, well…

She found the star necklace, buried at the bottom of her pile of books on her shelf.

The one Puss and the children gave her, the night when Esteban…

Her heart twisted when she flipped the paper star in her paw, then saw those words again.

‘The Star of San Lorenzo.’

Esme’s handwriting.

She put it back on her shelf after having dusted the dirt off from the paper star’s yellow surface, guilt heavy in her heart.

She felt guilty, because she _knew_ she didn’t deserve being called the Star of San Lorenzo.

…she was far too selfish.

She had dashed out of her room immediately to begin her other tasks—cleaning day did not only end in her own chambers, after all, and besides…

She needed to distract herself.

And she had good reasons to be distracted. It was San Lorenzo’s general cleaning day. They had one, at the end of every week. It was a day when every citizen swept and wiped and dusted their home clean. Living in the middle of a desert didn’t mean their little town had to be as dusty, after all. Conducting the cleaning day was even more crucial for today, since, the day before, their town had been so rudelessly trashed by these mythical cockatrice chicken reptile creatures that the Netherworld had spit up.

By the end of the cleaning day, Dulcinea was satisfied. Exhausted from all the work, yes, but satisfied. She had finished all her chores—with a lot of help from the children, of course. Puss had even so gallantly offered to take her broom for her so he could ‘heroically’ sweep up the floors of the children’s classroom while she worked on dusting the windows. At least, he lasted doing the cleaning task long enough before he got distracted by a couple of thieves. It was a normal domestic day for everybody. Together, with the children and the rest of the San Lorenzans, they’d accomplished tidying up the plaza, the orphanage, the garden, the cantina, the Treasure House. Even Artephius had cleaned up his clutter in Owlberto. And they were all exhausted.

Hence why the orphans wanted to be tucked early to bed immediately after dinner. They had salad at Pajuna’s cantine, made from their garden’s freshly-picked vegetables, and all of them ended up being pleasantly plump and full.

She had asked Puss if he could join her in reading the children their Rumplestiltskin bedtime story for the night, rather timidly. But Puss had refused. He said, quite curtly, that he’d rather stay out for patrol—“Because thieves never rest, Dulcinea. And so I shall not.” His gaze had softened then. “I shall see you tomorrow, my lady. Good night.”

And then he’d left through the doors.

She expected that answer, of course. He’d always refuse. It was in his character to obsess over every single possibility of a crime occurrence, because otherwise he wouldn’t _be_ Puss in Boots.

But she would be lying if she said that she didn’t at least have the tiniest shred of hope.

Hope that someday, Puss will sit with her on the edge of Esme’s bed, then read the bedtime story with her while the children peacefully drifted to the land of dreams.

She sighed. Moments later, she found herself doing exactly that, only without a particularly ginger gato by her side. She’d been so lost in thought while reading, that when she finished the first page of the Rumplestiltskin story and went on to flip to the second page, she was genuinely surprised to see everyone already fast asleep.

For a few moments, she lingered there. Then she smilingly shook her head to herself, closed her book, and stood from the edge of Esme’s bed to walk over to the orphans. It was her tradition to give each of her children a peck on the cheek before finally leaving them to slumber for the night. First Esme. Then Vina. Kid Pickles. Cleevil. It was a tradition she was determined never to relinquish even as they grow up.

After kissing the fifth child’s head—Toby’s—she left the children’s bedroom for her own sleeping quarters, yawning while stretching her arms above her head, decidedly done for the day.

Her room was a small, cosy thing, adjacent to the children’s bedroom. It had a small balcony where she can spend an entire night just leaning over the railing in tranquil contemplation. It also had a large window from where she’s able to look out and see the spillage of stars across the brilliant night sky.

That very scenery was what greeted her once she’d opened the door. She smiled to herself.

Home.

She gingerly sat on the right side of her bed where she can wistfully look at the night sky through her wide window. There was no moon, but the stars—they were so, so bright. Thin threads of astral light would even streak the sky occasionally. After all, the evening was young, and the sky was magnificent. The stars shone and sparkled and twinkled, like glitter was sprinkled on a blanket so inkily black, it seemed to glisten.

And as usual, she found her eyes drifting to stare at the empty spot where Esteban should be.

She…no longer grieved for her faded wishing star, really. It made her tender heart feel bad, but time had passed.

Time had passed, yet she couldn’t help but _feel_ sad whenever she stared at that empty spot.

She’d often tell herself that she felt sad because she missed Esteban. She missed her friend.

But…that’s a lie.

And it made her feel so terrible, so guilty, because the only reason she wanted her stellar friend back was a selfish, selfish reason.

It was unbecoming of her to think this way, because if San Lorenzo ever desperately needed a wish, this was definitely the time. Sure, things were going well. But they had the problem regarding the portal, and Artephius was yet to find a way to close it soon.

Until it’s dealt with, it would only continue to spit up Netherworldian monsters that only sought to destroy the town.

She wanted Esteban back, but was horrified of herself when she realized this—

Her first wish wouldn’t be for San Lorenzo.

No, her first wish would be for _herself_.

She gripped a fistful of her blanket on her bed with a clenched paw.

She, the Star of San Lorenzo, _ha_.

How could she, when she was so selfish?

This, this ache in her heart, it was not about Esteban, not about San Lorenzo, no, not _really_.

She fell asleep on her bed that night, her head facing the window, for once selfishly wishing that someday, he would reject her no more.

That someday…

Puss would say that he wished for her, too.

* * *

**1**  
_selfish._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> word count: 2,444 words.  
> note: the senior puss squad training together while they were teamed up is my headcanon! and this drabble is inspired by a nightwing/starfire dance from the movie teen titans: the judas contract. also i'm bad at flirting.

“You can do it, Duchie!”

The Duchess, effectively startled, turned her head to face Artephius, and blushed as madly as a bride when their eyes locked—but the distraction was to be her downfall. With a devious smirk on her face, the Sphinx pushed herself up from the floor in a crouch, her tail swishing agitatedly, before she dashed forward with the powerful beat of her wings—and aimed her blue firebolts.

“Take… _that!_ ”

The Eldritch Witch turned her head just in time, but it was too late—she shrieked a hellish shriek as the Sphinx’s firebolts hit her on the chest and she fell from the air. Artephius scrambled to catch her, though the two of them only ended up rolling over the plaza’s dusty ground until she ended up staring down at him.

“Ooh, hey there, _mon cherie_ ,” cooed Artephius when he found himself pinned onto the ground, his voice suggestive and low. He was ridiculously wriggling his eyebrows up at her as he reached up a hand to tuck a strand of her behind the Duchess’ ear. “Didn’t see you there.”

The blush on the Duchess’ face was undecidedly flustered or angry.

She settled for angry.

“Ugh!” She scrambled up from Artephius, her face and neck still furiously flushed. “I am so not speaking to you, Arty! It’s _your_ fault I just _lost!_ ”

“W-wait, Duchy,” Artephius stammered, getting up from the ground, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it! Forgive me, please? Please! I’ll do anything! _Duchy!_ ”

His voice faded as he followed the angrily stomping Duchess who made it clear from her yelling that she wanted absolutely _nothing_ from him.

As the two left the plaza, Puss put two fingers on the bridge of between his eyes and sighed, exasperated. “This again…”

The Sphinx was flying around the air, apparently the only one of them who didn’t give a care about the town’s resident magicians’ budding relationship. Or whatever it is they had. “Whoop! Hey, I won the match, right? Does this mean I can go get back to slee—I mean…guarding…the town?”

Puss sighed. “Right. Of course.”

“Yes!” she sang happily, then was immediately on her way flapping her wings to the sky. Puss—and everyone else near the vicinity—coughed as the dust got stirred up from the ground.

Puss groaned into his paws afterward.

“The Duchess…” El Guante stepped forward to offer his opinion. “She has been a bit emotional lately, yes?”

“Indeed,” answered Puss, “and it is not good for the team. She must stop being so distracted—she must focus! But not only the Duchess— _all_ of us must focus in our training. But with one member down, we cannot train properly. Look at the _Sphinx!_ She thinks she is already at her top shape when the only reason she defeated the Duchess is because she was _distracted!_ ” He was stomping around frustratedly, wildly throwing his hands up in the air. “We only have a month left till the Val—the…Walpur…!”

Ugh. He got even angrier at the fact that he did not even know how to pronounce the stupid day.

“The Walpurgisnacht,” patiently supplied Dulcinea, walking from behind him with cookies and drinks on the tray she brought for them from the cantina.

“Yes,” Puss melodramatically agreed, and, surely, the _only_ reason his heart began beating faster was because his frustration was spiking. “It is nearly,” he snatched a cup of leche from Dulcinea’s tray, “ _that_ day, and we have not yet fully prepared our team for the danger that is to come.”

Dulcinea rolled her eyes and moved to offer El Guante a cup and a cookie before settling down beside him as well, seated on the steps leading up to the Treasure House.

The first step was already done—he’d already gathered a team of heroes. El Guante Blanco and the Goodsword, the Sphinx, the Duchess, Dulcinea, and finally, him.

The second step was a little bit more difficult. They had to train.

Not only that—they had to train as a team.

Every day, Puss made certain that he fulfilled his role as a leader well. He would have his team members pair off and spar with each other. Sphinx against El Guante and his sword. The Duchess against Dulcinea. Him against the Sphinx. And on and on and on. Today, they had the Sphinx spar against the Duchess. Different opponents with different fighting styles every day. That way, they’d be ready how to fight against anyone—or any _thing_ —that can fly, perform magic, shoot projectiles, or engage in close-range combat.

After having interrogated Uli about the arrival of the Bloodwolf, it was finally revealed to them that the monster shall come on the day of the Walpurgisnacht. Artephius explained that the foreign word was literally translated to ‘the Night of Walpurgis’. A little more research into myth and legends revealed that this _Walpurgis_ was a vicious witch who utilized dark magic so ancient, it even preceded time.

And like any other witch, she had violent little familiars at her beck and call.

Puss cannot be certain what the future had in store for them, for San Lorenzo. Artephius himself said that they cannot be certain whether it really _is_ dark magic that they’re up against.

But he worried. If it really was dark sorcery they had to battle, then they’d have to be ready. He had to train their sorceress.

Their only sorceress.

And yet here she was, distracted by what was apparently a relapsing crush on a senile alchemist.

He was startled from his thoughts when he felt Dulcinea’s paw land on his shoulder.

“Don’t be mad at the Duchess, Puss,” she placatingly pled, “I’m sure we’ll figure this one out.”

Puss sighed a big breath of air. He didn’t even realize he’d been clenching his fists so tightly until now.

“I am sorry, I am sorry,” he amended. “It is just that—our time is running out, and the Duchess—“

“Don’t worry,” Dulcinea cut off, collecting his empty cup of leche before walking up to El Guante and the Goodsword to collect theirs. Snack time is over. “She’s just…confused. I’ll go talk to her.”

“No,” he said, stopping her with a paw on her upper arm before she walked away. “ _I_ will talk to her. I am the leader, Dulcinea. This is my job.”

She rolled her eyes. “This is girl talk, Puss, and leader or not—“

“It is my right to know everything that is bothering my team.”

“Puss…”

Puss only crossed his arms over his chest and haughtily tapped at the floor with his boot, determined not to back away from her glare.

She sighed. “She’s confused. We just suddenly dragged her back here in San Lorenzo and she’s seeing Artephius for the first time and she—”

“—is distracted,” he firmly asserted with an accusatory point of a finger, “and I mean to teach her a lesson how not to be.”

“She’s _confused_ ,” Dulcinea insisted, pulling him back because he’d just attempted to walk past her, “and she needs help with her feelings! Why are we even arguing about this?”

Well…he paused. Even he cannot be certain. But ever since that incident where he failed the team as a leader and it was _Dulcinea_ who took his place, well…he had been feeling quite…

Inferior to her.

Yes, yes, a disgusting proposition! But he cannot help it. He felt that…in comparison to Dulcinea…

He was a failure of a leader.

And he wanted to prove to her that he was _not_.

He shall be a good leader and talk to the Duchess himself. She shall _see…!_

“Oi, the two of you,” interrupted El Guante Blanco from where he comfortably sat to watch the drama unfold. The two cats turned to face the smiling maestro. “How about we settle this productively, eh? Eh?”

A spark danced in Puss’ green eyes as he saw through what his maestro was suggesting.

“ _Ahh_.” He let his fingers drum over the hilt of his sword like fingers on a piano and smirked over at Dulcinea. “Of this, I approve.”

Dulcinea looked like she was keeping herself from bursting, but was able to compose herself quite quickly with a resigned exhale.

Poker-faced, she knelt and put her tray on the ground. When she stood, she held out a paw. The Goodsword, seeing her expectant look, obligingly flew to her grasp, and she tightened her fingers around his hilt.

“Ah, this shall be exciting,” commented the Goodsword. Even El Guante Blanco looked on approvingly, leaning back on his seat with his arms crossed and a smug smirk on his face. 

Puss strutted forward, gracefully gliding over the dusty ground like he was walking on water. He slowly drew out his sword and he circled Dulcinea when she began doing the same. They held their swords at the ready, every muscle tense, bodies angled away from each other and ready to back off, just in case the other one decided to attack first.

“Now that I think about it,” Puss arrogantly started, “We do not usually train together.”

She scoffed. “I wonder why that is, dear leader.”

“I do not wish to pair myself with you only to fight you. I was being gallant.”

Dulcinea rolled her eyes. “ _Gallant?_ Is it sad I predicted that kind of answer from you?”

He gasped. She better _not_ be saying that he, Puss, in Boots, was predictable!

“Impossible…!”

“You’re male,” she deadpanned. “You’re predictable.”

“How rude. I am just being honest—I really do not want to fight you.”

She arched a brow. “Then why do you suddenly want this fight now?”

“Ah, but I am not asking you to fight, señorita,” he smirked, and finally lifted his sword. “I am asking you to dance.”

She returned the smirk with a fleer of her own. “Took you long enough.”

And she stepped forward to attack.

Puss sidestepped so Dulcinea tripped, then he moved behind her to attack—but she quickly recovered and spun around in place to block his sword with the flat side of the Goodsword’s blade.

Then he began a series of parries that pushed Dulcinea back, but she deflected and suddenly it was her turn to deliver her parries and it was Puss flailing for the ripostes. They drew back from the fight to take a breath and circled each other, then clashed their swords again. Indeed, it was a dance—they seemed to float in the air, moving as gracefully as a couple would in a ballroom, the synchronization of their steps and attacks a choreography conducted by their tenacity to win.

Suddenly, his foil struck the Goodsword’s metal blade— _“Ooh, ouch!”_ the enchanted sword mock-exclaimed—and Puss twirled his weapon to disarm her in seconds, flinging the Goodsword away so that it was far out of her reach.

She gave him a disapproving look before running for it, but then he caught her by wrist and he pulled her to him, and she felt the entire world whirl around her until they were suddenly chest to chest.

She squirmed, but he had her caged in his arms and he was not letting her go. He knew it was foul play but what the heck, whatever it takes to win.

“ _Predictable_ , am I?”

“Puss!”

“I thought I had made it clear, my señorita,” he began, smirking, “that I wanted a _dance_ , not a fight.”

He thought he saw a flicker of something pass through Dulcinea’s sky blue eyes.

“Oh, Puss…” she said breathily, and suddenly Puss couldn’t help the loud beating of his heart in his ribcage because he only had to move his head a little to the side and he could dip her a ki—

No. _No_. Uh-oh. _Stop it!_ What had he gotten himself into? They were so, so _close_ , and he realized that he himself was running short on breath. He could not stop his eyes from stealing a glance of her mouth and Dulcinea, Felina, _why was she staring at him like that?_

“Puss…”

He swallowed thickly. “…yes?”

She closed her eyes.

She _closed_ her eyes.

…Felina, here, _now?_

Well, what can he say? He was a male. So he closed his eyes, too.

But as he leaned forward…

A sharp pain erupted from his shin and he realized that Dulcinea had kneed him. He fell forward with a manly cry of pain. Dulcinea quickly escaped from his arms and moved behind him to grab his wrist to make him fall backward instead. Soon, Puss’ head collided against the floor with a dull _thud_ , and when he opened his eyes, he was suddenly met with the tip of his own foil sword being pointed at the space in the middle of his eyes.

And he was gasping for breath because it all happened in two seconds flat.

“Pre- _dic_ -tuh-ble,” she sing-sang triumphantly.

Great. Apparently Dulcinea had managed to wrench his sword out of his paw, too.

Both El Guante Blanco and the Goodsword—who’d flown to his wielder’s side by now—were hysterically _guffawing_ like his utter humiliation was the funniest thing in the world.

“I…I demand a rematch,” he objected dully. He would call her out for foul play, but even that sounded lame to his ears. He was the one who started it, after all.

Apparently, she thought so too, because she simply ignored it and smiled sweetly.

“Are you _sure_ the Duchess is the one who needs lessons about distractions?” she asked, oh so _ever_ sweetly, before dropping his sword to the ground beside him and walking away to pick up her tray. With one last triumphant smile at him, she sashayed her way out of their sight.

Puss grunted as he got up his feet, dusting off the dirt from his fur.

“She got you there, Ginger!” he heard El Guante laughingly remark as he put his sword back in its place on his leather belt.

He was not happy about this. _He_ was the one who should be doing the romancing. _He_ should be the _expert_ on romancing! But no, he fell for it. He _fell_ for a woman’s charm—no—bewitchery—no— _wiles_ , which should not have to happen if he had her fall for him first. 

Unless he was losing his touch with the ladies.

Ugh. He needed to beat up some thieves. The Thieves’ Market sounded a good place to sulk. He walked glumly to the stables where Babieca usually kept to himself, but El Guante’s voice followed him still when the maestro’s laughter finally calmed down to a breathy sigh—

“Ah, yes, Ginger. She got you _good_.”

Puss groaned.

* * *

**2**   
_whirl._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> word count: 2,369  
> note: i've been listening to an instrumental of a song which inspired me to write this, and later i decided to make that piece represent this entire collection. the title is fallin’, covered by steven law. here's the link if inclined to listen, which i highly recommend you do! i love this piece so much. here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kiH5EQIlkSE
> 
> also, you know how the shoe orphanage has a balcony? i'm making it my headcanon that that balcony is the outside of dulcinea’s room.

It was on the tenth night of his stay in San Lorenzo when she first found out about it.

It happened way back then. But she recalled the little details as clearly as crystal glass. Details like how late in the night it was. How cold the breeze was. How the darkness has been chased away by the glittering starlight. How she’d been so tired from the day’s activities, yet how she couldn’t sleep no matter what happy thought she tried to conjure. How even reading the _Compendium of Factes and Funne_ for perhaps the thousandth time in her life wouldn’t lull her to precious, precious sleep.

She could remember how she’d decided to just give up her endless tossing and turning, because there was no way she could sleep now she’d finally acknowledged how awake she truly was.

She could remember how, after tossing her book back on its rightful place over her drawer, she’d just laid there on her bed—her bright blue eyes, wide-awake and a stark contrast to the surrounding darkness, staring blankly at the ceiling.

She could remember pondering if her hatred of Jack Sprat was the reason she couldn’t sleep, just so she had more reason to malign the obnoxious jerk—she’d met the despicable degenerate earlier that day after all, and the spite in her heart still burned fresh.

She could remember how she’d sighed and decided to just resign herself to it. She’d finally leapt from her bed and let her bare feet softly pad over the woolly carpet that blanketed her room. She’d snatched a robe from its peg on the wall and wrapped it around her over her nightdress before she stepped out the balcony of her room, a cool breath of night wind splashing over her face the moment she was outside.

She’d leaned over the railing and looked over her town in contemplative silence. Day was a dress that fit San Lorenzo perfectly, but night made it _sparkle_. 

She sighed. A week had already passed since the protection spell had been broken, and to be honest, she’d been feeling a bit antsy—maybe that was the reason for her unrest. It was a new emotion to her, after all. To have everything she’d ever valued suddenly exposed to the dangers of the outside world, to have it stripped bare of all protection, it made her feel a bit…

Not that she doubted the ability of Puss in Boots. She had faith that he was a man of his word—she trusted him with her whole heart that he would not turn his back on them, that he will do everything to protect them. It was just that…

She worried.

And not only for San Lorenzo.

She shivered as the cold seemed to creep up her spine. Only that afternoon, she and the children had prepared a little adventure for Puss—something that had to do with evil princesses, castles, and evil mages, an adventure that quickly escalated into a dangerous fight against a giant amphibian monster with a fake princess dangling from the stalk that grew out of its forehead. Dulcinea chuckled at the memory of it.

But her little happy reprieve immediately dampened when her thoughts went back to Puss in Boots.

And she was back to worrying.

She wasn’t certain how long she’d been standing there, just leaning against the banister looking up at the stars. The moon was there—crescent, thin, a shining sliver of silver—and the stars, as usual, beamed their brightest. Night truly was beautiful in San Lorenzo, and she wondered why she’d never attempted to break the rules of her sleep cycle to witness its spellbinding allure.

If only it could give her a peace of mind, then it would have been perfect.

She’d closed her eyes in resignation for what was probably the hundredth time that night and decided to go back to her room. She’d just seen a faint dark grey colour lining the horizon, and while the sky still shone with stars, she doubted she can survive through the morning if she didn’t sleep now. Besides, she still had a class to teach that morning, chores to finish, kids to take care of. But, it was just as she’d turned around when…

She heard it.

_Guitar?_

It started out slow. Hesitant, even. A few, gentle finger strokes, each crystalline note twinkling like a star. Every softly thrummed string quivered, singing unspoken words, and the cool breeze brought the melody to her ears.

It…calmed her.

It didn’t take her long to realize, after curiously peeking over the garden or the plaza, that her invisible companion wasn’t anywhere below her—whoever this person was, he or she was playing the guitar from above the orphanage, on the roof.

Specifically, above _her_ room.

She leaned to the side of her balcony to get a glimpse of who it was—the moon was just a crescent, but it shone quite brilliantly, and the light was perfectly angled so that the shadows fell clearly on the left side of the shoe building. 

And so, when her eyes landed on the shadow cast upon the left side of the orphanage, she had no idea why she was so surprised.

Because there, on the floor, was the silhouette of a certain leather-clad ginger cat, seated on the orphanage’s rooftop. There was a guitar in his arms, his entire body moving rhythmically in time with his strums. He played the song so, so softly, gently, quietly, as if he was afraid that he will rouse the rest of the town from their slumber if he played it too harshly. For all his bravado and swaggering show of toughness, she never would have thought he was capable of this—of such tenderness, and rawness, and affection, for the guitar.

She never would have guessed that he even played the guitar at all!

She smiled to herself and decided to stay. She listened, her paws holding her robes around her, her eyes closed as she let the breeze ripple over her fur, her elbows leaning against the banister, letting the music fill something empty in her that she never knew existed. And then, after what seemed like eternities, his song faded into the wind. She revelled in the silence that followed for several moments after the performance, after which she cracked an eye open and looked down at her left.

His silhouette was no longer there, and she assumed he’d already gone his way for bed.

The next day, she woke up nearly around the afternoon—just around the usual time Puss himself got out of bed when no thief managed to break into the town earlier in the mornings. She’d been horrified at first, of course, realizing that she’d missed most of her chores _and_ her class, but after a moment, she also realized that she felt, well…rested, for seemingly the first time this week. So she let it slide, but she made a mental note that this shall only happen once—it would be remiss of her if she let the children spend a day again without learning at least something, and if she even attempted to conduct her class during the afternoon, the children would only want to play.

Toby still had a ways to go when it came to the alphabet.

Señora Zapata, well, she found it suspicious that she overslept, considering that that never ever happened before—and especially even more suspicious, the fact that she’d woken up around the time Puss in Boots woke up. Dulcinea deflected the señora’s attempts to draw something out of her by smiling sweetly while inching to the door and getting out of there as fast as she could. She went to the cantina to have her breakfast—well, lunch, it seemed—and was delighted when Pajuna served her some paella to go with her leche.

And then Puss sat at the stool beside her.

He’d been yawning as he weakly demanded Pajuna his leche. The Scottish barkeeper had only rolled her eyes at her customer’s unapologetic sleepiness, and Dulcinea had giggled. He snapped his gaze to her then, and when Dulcinea only smiled at him knowingly, Puss arched an eyebrow at her. She decided she would keep quiet about it, though—she didn’t want him to think that he woke her up in the middle of the night, and she definitely didn’t want him to stop playing.

At least now she understood why he always overslept.

That very night, she found that she couldn’t sleep, again—so, once more, she walked out her balcony, hoping the previous night would happen again…and it did.

And the night after that.

 _And_ the night after that.

Soon, she discovered, that night after night after night, it never failed. It almost seemed like his regular routine, and Dulcinea found herself clinging to it, making his secret guitar-playing session a routine of her own, even if her part in it was only to listen. Of course, with that, she had to adjust her sleeping schedule—she’d still wake up early in the morning to teach the children and accomplish her chores, but then she’d take a really, really long afternoon siesta after lunch, while the children played. She’d wake up again just in time for dinner, and though Señora Zapata would give her strange looks as if demanding an explanation for her new sleeping habit, she never brought it up, which Dulcinea was thankful for.

Every night after she’d tucked the children to bed and read herself a tale from one of her books in the quietude of her room, she’d find that she can’t sleep so she’d go out into the balcony. She’d only have to wait for several moments of calm before finally, her waiting would be rewarded by a gentle melody gracing her ears. He’d begin to play his song to the stars scattered across the cosmos, and Dulcinea only had to close her eyes and she’d easily be able to imagine that he’s playing the song for her.

There was…something that she began to notice about his playing, though.

He played the same song every single night.

Not that it was…wrong, per se. She simply found it strange. Soon, she found herself grappling for answers. Maybe he just didn’t know how to play any other song other than this? But, that was unlikely; his playing had flair, and she could easily deduce just from listening that as simple and calming the melody was, it still sounded difficult to play.

So, maybe this was his favourite song? Ah, perhaps, that would be quite obvious, but even if something were one’s favourite song, they wouldn’t play it this much with such obsession!

Well, then, maybe he found the song as calming and tranquil as she found it? Well yes, for the very same reasons Dulcinea even listened to him every single night without fail, maybe he can’t sleep as well, and this particular song healed his anxieties.

She could only speculate, and she knew she didn’t have any right to pry—it was none of her business, and she should be perfectly fine with that. She was just a listener from the background, and she should be perfectly content to be allowed the simple pleasure of listening to the music his heart seemed love so dearly.

But she kept wondering why.

During the day, slowly but surely, they were becoming close friends—they’d talk, do things together, share things about themselves. And during the night, she’d listen to him play, without him ever knowing. 

She waited for the day that he’d tell her about how he played the guitar, about how much he loved the song, about how, during the night, he’d play it right before he went to bed. She waited, but…

It never came.

She slowly came to the realization that there were still so many things she didn’t know about him, that he kept secret from her. And she knew she didn’t have the right to feel this way, but it…saddened her, to a degree.

She wished that he’d confide in her the same way she confided in him.

She’d decided to be sneaky once, by asking him if he had a favourite song. But, after a moment of astonished blinking, he’d merely smiled and only left it at that.

It grated on her, just a little. He was her friend, after all! Why wouldn’t he open up? Did he think she was…unworthy? Well, he might just be a little unready to share with her, but hadn’t they been friends for long enough? Didn’t he trust her? She wanted to know everything about him, just as she’d told him everything about her. She wanted to know what colour he liked, what patterns he saw in the sky, what insect he feared, what flower he found lovely, what dreams he had when he was young—

And why this song.

There was one night, though, when he suddenly stopped his playing just halfway through the song, which she’d memorized by heart by now. Dulcinea had immediately pawed her own mouth when she realized she’d been humming in the silence that followed the pause in his playing. Suddenly, she’d feared that maybe he _heard_ her humming—which she hadn’t even realized she was doing, oh, _fiddlefuff_ —and that this may be the last of her nightly guitar-listening ventures once he found out that she knew his secret.

But, she was wrong.

When she looked to the left side of her balcony and saw his silhouette projected clearly onto the plaza, the sight wrenched her own heart so badly it physically hurt, and suddenly she was so full of guilt for thinking about _herself_.

This…this wasn’t about Puss not trusting her, or thinking she was unworthy.

This was about a raw part of _himself_ , a wound that wasn’t yet ready to be touched.

She…shouldn’t be here.

So Dulcinea closed her eyes, wrapped her robe around herself, and stepped back inside her room.

She dreamt of silently witnessing a silhouette cry over his guitar, up the rooftops during the dead of night where he probably thought that only the stars could hear.

* * *

**3  
** _insomnia._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> word count: 2,375  
> date written: nov 28, 2018  
> note: i know, i know, i said the stories aren’t connected, but this will only happen once, i promise. the song constant as the stars above is the subject of this ficlet, (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OkcjpVcjaxA) even if the preceding chapter promoted a totally different song. just think of it this way: fallin’ is the guitar version of constant as the stars above. get it? whatever, it works in my imagination. and my imagination works in mysterious ways…

He did not really find his home in San Lorenzo when he first arrived there, to be perfectly honest. Well, yes, Dulcinea was rather welcoming. The children, as well, even though they were too shy to really be comfortable around him long enough for a talk. Save for Toby, that was—the child could be quite a talkative one. The pig was a little…tiring to be with, though, what with his demands to do things that ‘best friends’ do, and Puss could only take too much of piggyback rides before his back broke for good.

And the townspeople…they were wary. _Wary_ was an understatement for Mayor Temeroso, however, but for most of them, well.

They would think he did not see it whenever he walked by and they would flash him a nervous smile before quickening their pace to get back to their home and shut the door, all before he even had the chance to greet them a completely innocent ‘Buenos días.’

Dulcinea told him that it was probably the sword he always wore around his belt, but he found that quite hard to understand—his sword was supposed to be their symbol of _protection_ , not terror. Would they rather have him protect the town unarmed?

Then there was Señora Zapata. The woman was…ah, a very disagreeable angel dropped down by the heavens for probably that very reason, to put it in the kindest way. He tried to gain her favour by being kind to one of her children. Esme, he learned was her name. There was this one time when he was simply helping the girl create her paper boat while telling her of his own adventures across the seven seas. She had gaped at him with such amazement in her eyes as the events of that particular escapade unfurled before her—and in fairness, the maritime tales he had regaled her with _were_ actually true. It was a mission to obtain a treasure map from a savage pirate named Rojo, and even he found himself having a good time simply sitting by the fountain and talking to the girl—even though he had to purposefully omit the violent (though admittedly fun) parts.

Eventually, Puss had finished telling his story at the same time as he finished crafting her paper boat. He then let it float over the rippling waters of the fountain beside them, which Esme delightfully clapped at. He had fully intended to demonstrate to her how to craft a paper plane next, but then Señora Zapata spotted their innocent interactions and pulled Esme by the arm to get her away from him, muttering something about never talking to ‘that filthy criminal thief ever again’.

Really, he could not even offended by those words anymore. After all, he had led the life of a thief once—he had long stopped being a stranger to shifty eyes and doubtful stares. By now, he just felt exasperated. Because if he was going to stay here, this kind of hostility directed towards him should not go on forever.

He revealed his concerns to the town’s barkeeper, Pajuna. That was when he learned of the insight that perhaps, this was just what happened when you isolate a small town from the rest of the big bad world for what may have been millennia. He thought Dulcinea was merely exaggerating when she first told him the tale, but now he knew better. Outsiders literally _were_ out-of-the-world for San Lorenzo. Which was probably why he found a kindred soul in the comradely cow. Pajuna revealed that she was, once upon a time, an outsider as well. But since she had established the Cow and Moone Cantina in San Lorenzo many years ago, the town had quickly grown to trust her as someone who did not mean them any harm.

He then expressed his hope that perhaps the town would grow to see him in that light as well. But then Pajuna shot his hopes down by telling him that it would _probably_ take him time until he was fully liked by everyone in town. He had gasped an offended ‘How dare…!’ before Pajuna cut him off and reminded him of the fact that he _was_ the one who attempted to steal the coin from their Treasure House which destroyed the protection spell that they have been relying on for Felina-knows-how-long, therefore he had no right to think he deserved to be trusted.

Aaaand she had a point, and it effectively shut him up to end that conversation, but come on. It was just a _coin_. At the time, he knew nothing. And besides, what _were_ they going to do with all that treasure? Stealing—or in gentler words, keeping an item without the express permission of its owner—a measly piece of withered bronze should not make him such a despicably vicious and irredeemable criminal.

But here he was. Isolated and a little, well, alone, except for the occasional thief, and the times when Dulcinea would be out of class. He would try to tell himself that it was what he deserved. But he also thought that if this was going to be the home he would protect with his life for the days to come, then both parties should at least _try_ to get along.

Dulcinea saw through his worries, he thought, because she had approached him once about it. And so he spilled his guts. She had merely looked at him with sympathy once he was finished narrating his thoughts, and then she said, taking his paw in both of hers, “When nasty thoughts have filled your head, just hum a happy tune instead.” She had smiled so sweetly it was contagious, he could not have helped that ridiculous smile of disbelief breaking from the surface of his face as well. “The wisdom of the book!”

Her obsession with her silly little book of rhymes, he found, could be quite an amusing thing. It was strange, really. Unique, as well. He had found her fascinating since the very beginning, but now he was thoroughly convinced that she was unlike anyone he had ever met. Truly, who would attempt to comfort someone else by reciting a rhyme from a children’s book? He was honestly convinced that no one in the world would _do_ that. Until he met her.

He found her manner childlike, but at the same time, she had the grace of an adult. A woman. He got to know her better and better each passing day, and slowly, he knew that she was at least trying to make him feel like this was home. He was especially touched by her efforts to bring him an adventure, right in the middle of the town. Something about evil princesses, a castle, and a wicked mage. That incident quickly spiralled into chaos when Artephius accidentally cracked the entrapment gem, releasing that giant slimy monster thing with a fake princess dangling creepily from the stalk that sprouted out its forehead. He chuckled at the thought of Dulcinea scaring that monster away by growling at it and calling it a ‘big bully’.

Now, _that_ was feline.

Eventually, he came to seriously consider her suggestion to turn to music at times when ‘nasty thoughts begin to fill his head.’ The town had a musician—Puss forgot his name—but he could remember him as that plump man with a hat, notable for always bringing a guitar with him wherever he went. He asked him if he had a spare, and the man hesitantly said that he did; he asked if he could borrow it, the man told him it was his to keep. Which was great.

From then on, he played it during the nights when no one can hear.

And Dulcinea was right, he thought. Playing music…it felt like he was closing his eyes to the world and opening them again someplace else where he felt like he _belonged_.

Once upon a time, he had been just a kitten, another child who never knew who his parents were. Perhaps they had died upon his birth, maybe he had been abandoned, or likely, he was unwanted. He had long resigned himself to the fact that perhaps he would never know. But no matter what the reason was, being orphaned was probably the greatest blessing he had ever received. After all, it had given him the rarest opportunity to be the son of a mother he never would have known he needed.

She was the kind of mother that was simply…perfect. The kind that would not scorn him for making a mistake, instead gently reprimanding him for it. The kind who would understand if he got scared of the lightning and thunder, or if he had a terrible nightmare about the monster under his bed. The kind who would shamelessly call him _pequeño_ in public and he could only feel embarrassed yet so purely loved at the same time. The kind of mother who, when he was sick and he would feel isolated by all the other boys at the orphanage because they did not want to catch his cold, would still openly take him into her arms and gently rock him back and forth, singing him the lullaby she sung to him every night as a kitten to guide his way to sleep.

So whenever he strummed the guitar, it made him feel like he was someplace warm. Someplace familiar. Someplace his heart cherished. Someplace home.

Someplace else.

He did not want to have to explain himself why he preferred to stay up in the nights, and if he ever revealed it, Dulcinea, kindness incarnate, would surely suspect that something was wrong. He did not want her to worry for his well-being, so, ultimately, he decided to keep his nightly solo guitar performances a secret.

Until _she_ started humming.

He was a little startled when he first heard her do it. Not that it was…unusual for her to hum, no. In fact, he heard her hum quite often—when she would do the gardening with the children, while she read her book during lunch at the cantina, or during the small spaces of silence whenever they had their usual conversations when she insisted to walk with him during his patrols around the town.

It was just that he had never heard her hum this particular melody before.

He would ask her how she had come to know the song. But he had his own doubts about what song she was humming, exactly. He would try to confirm it by listening intently, but she would only hum that melody for a few seconds before she would pause, and repeat it from the beginning, as if she was not certain how the notes came next.

So he could not exactly be sure what song it was.

And he did not exactly want to start the conversation and confuse her. He did not really feel like explaining himself, in case she had no idea what he was talking about, and besides…

Eventually, she had to give herself away.

She probably thought that she was being sneaky, but she had asked him, so directly, what his favourite song was.

It would have been less obvious if she subtly put the question in proper context, but the thing was, she blurted out the question so _randomly_.

Plus, he himself had come to suspect her sudden sleep diet, how she would spend more time for her siesta and all.

If that did not confirm how she secretly knew of his supposedly-secret, nightly guitar playing, then nothing would.

And suddenly, well…it made _sense_ to him. In the most absurdly literal sort of way. He never felt alone whenever he played his guitar—because there was someone, someone else, letting herself get lost in the music _with_ him, so that they were lost together.

He really did laugh out loud to himself once he realized, he never really was alone, was he?

At least…Dulcinea never let it happen.

And he felt it, he _felt_ her silent presence every single night when he got up from his bed, grabbed his guitar, and went for the rooftops before he sat himself down and began to strum. Dulcinea would never know that he knew she knew, and he was perfectly fine with that—eventually, he had grown to play the guitar _for_ her, because he knew that _she_ was there, listening…which was all that mattered. He was afraid of pushing her away by letting her know, and besides, he was already content with this arrangement. He would play, she would listen. He had long learned that doing something for someone else could create the most wonderful feeling ever, and this…this feeling of companionship was more than he could ever ask for.

Until that night happened.

He played the same song, as usual. He strummed with his eyes closed, as usual. Then suddenly…

He found the world dissolving all around him, and he was a kitten again, sick and isolated by all the other orphan boys so there _she_ was there again, mothering him. His mamá. Warmth enveloped him like a thick and soft quilt, and he could hear the wood crackling by the fireplace. He felt as if his spiking fever could not make him shiver more violently. But then she would pull him closer to her warm bosom, muttering how he would be well soon, and how she would be there for him every step of the way.

She was cradling him in her arms.

And she was _humming_.

He snapped his eyes open, but that was a mistake—because suddenly, he found himself back on top of the rooftop he sat on, a guitar in his arms.

Silence in the wind.

And his fingers, frozen over the strings in mid-strum.

He sat there for a few moments, perfectly still and unmoving, his eyes fixated on the crescent moon even though in truth, he did not really see it.

Because his eyes were already welling with tears.

He knew he missed being sung this lullaby to him. He knew it was childish. But until now…

He never realized how much he had already forgotten how his mamá’s voice sounded like.

* * *

**4  
** _dulcet._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “When nasty thoughts fill your head, just hum a happy tune instead.”  
> word count: 2,205  
> note: i lied. this is a continuation of 04: dulcet, which proves that apparently i really don’t have self-control ~

He did not understand why she stopped her humming.

He continued his nightly ventures over the rooftops to play the music he played, but for some odd reason, it…no longer felt the same.

He suddenly felt alone again.

So he stopped.

After all, she was the reason he played, and if she was not there, there was no point in doing it anymore.

…

She did not understand why he stopped his playing.

She did not go out the balcony anymore as she usually did, because she had finally come to the realization that maybe she was invading something private, something raw, something that he really did keep a secret for a reason, and it would be wrong to listen—as innocent as her true intentions were.

She tried, she really did. But she still found that she could not sleep easily at night. Old habits die hard, so to speak, and listening to him play has become a regular part of her routine by now.

She did stay inside her room.

But that did not mean she couldn’t hear it if he wasn’t playing anymore.

* * *

“Puss—”

“Dulcinea?”

They stopped and stared at one another.

Dulcinea had come to the orphanage’s rooftop to wait for him to come as he usually did.

Puss had come to see the stars as he usually did before going to bed, but seeing Dulcinea there, on his spot, was, well…unexpected.

Silence reigned between them as the night continued to glitter from above them.

Puss walked towards her, closing the distance.

“Why are you here?”

She stood from her spot and took a step back away from him. “Why are _you_ here?” she countered.

He stopped walking. “I…well. It is late, and you should be asleep.”

“Well…” she began, uncomfortably, “well. So should you.”

Puss chuckled nervously and scratched the back of his head. “Right. Touché.”

Again, silence.

Then he could not take it anymore.

“Look, Dulcinea, can we please, _please_ stop pretending?”

 _Oh fiddlefuff, he knows_ , panicked Dulcinea. “Puss—I—I’m sorry—”

“Because I have been recently thinking about how you and I—wait. What?”

That uncomfortable silence again.

“You—you are…sorry?” He was honestly confused. “For what?”

“Um…I…” She was fiddling with her fingers. Then she blurted, “Why are you bringing a guitar with you?”

He blinked for several moments before lifting the guitar he had in his paw to see it before his eyes, as if he never realized he even had it on his person in the first place.

“Ah,” he intoned, for lack of words to say. “Dulcinea…I know you know that I play.”

Her gaze was back to firm and steady, even though he could see how the clenched paws by her side trembled a little.

“But you no longer do.”

“Ha…well…th-that is…I—”

“It’s my fault,” she cut him off, and he blinked, shocked; he looked to her to make her see the confusion in his eyes, but she had bowed her head as if she could not bear to look at him. “I’m sorry.”

“ _Sorry?_ ” He was incredulous. “Dulcinea, you did nothing wrong—“

“I was listening to your playing every night, even though I knew you wanted to keep it a secret!” The words rushed from her mouth so quickly, it seemed to Puss as if she was trying to rip off an adhesive bandage. “I…invaded your privacy! I wasn’t supposed to listen. I should’ve known there was a reason why you didn’t tell anyone that you could play, but then—then one night, you heard me humming along, and that was when you knew I was there, and from that night on, you just stopped. _playing_. All because I was there, and I’m sorry, I’m sorry for intruding—”

“Dulcinea, listen to me,” he told her gently but firmly, because she needed to stop rambling and putting together so many words that meant nothing to him. “This is a small thing. It is not a big deal.”

“It is, to me,” she insisted. She’d recently just found out that the reason she couldn’t sleep was not because of habit—it was because of guilt. “So let me apologize.”

He drew out a slow sigh. “As I have already said…Dulcinea, I know that you know that I play.”

“Yes, and you found it out when you heard me hum along—”

“I knew even before I heard you hum.”

“Um.” Now it was her turn to be flabbergasted. “What? But…but how…” she trailed off weakly.

He grinned at her. Maybe she really _was_ unaware that she hummed the melody of his song in plain earshot, but of course, being Puss in Boots, he did not let that opportunity to preen go to waste. “You underestimate my powers of deduction, my lady.” He proceeded to sit himself down on his usual spot, crossing his legs to comfortably position his guitar in his arms, but he made sure to inch a little to the side to give more space for one more.

“Come hither,” he coaxed, not looking at her as he began to check if the strings were tuned properly. Finally satisfied with how a single strum sounded, he smiled, and finally looked up at her with his glittering eyes, the green made more startlingly pronounced by the dim light of the moonlit night. “There is something I would like to tell you.”

Something was suddenly caught in Dulcinea’s throat, and she swore the touch of a blush was spreading across her cheeks underneath her white fur. She lifted a paw to rub at her upper arm in an abashed manner, turning her head away. “Um…I don’t really think….”

“Oh, come on,” he cajoled, “It is forgiveness you want, yes? Then I would not be able to forgive you any other way than this. So sit.”

She sniffled, then rolled her eyes, but eventually, she obliged.

“See? I do not bite. That is,” he provoked, arching a sort of flirtatious eyebrow at her once she was seated beside him, “unless you want me to.”

It took a moment for Dulcinea to realize what he was implying before gasping and punching him on the shoulder in return. “How inappropriate!”

“Ha! So you _can_ pick up!” He laughed heartily and gave Dulcinea an expectant look to invite her to laugh along with him, but when she only maintained that staunch deadpan on her face, Puss felt a wave of embarrassment when he forced himself to push the laughter deep down into the oblivion of his throat. “Alright,” he said, clearing said throat, “I shall get to my point.”

He adjusted his arms and put his left paw fingers over a fret. But just as he moved his right paw to strum—

“Wait,” she said, catching his fingers before they made a sound. “Are you…certain I have earned enough level of your friendship to be trusted with this secret of yours?”

He looked at her, dumfounded.

“ _Earned my friendship?_ ” he choked.

The incredulous look he was giving her suddenly made her feel stupid, so she drew her paw back and fiercely swore _fiddlefuff fiddlefuff fiddlefuff_ in the back of her tongue before rambling, “Um, I’m sorry, it’s just that—I thought—I’m _very_ new to talking with outsiders, and—I’m just uncertain how to talk to _you_ most of the time, so I will try to—”

“No.” Suddenly he looked stern. There she was again rambling with all those meaningless words _._ “Do not change. I like you this way.”

Her features softened, which she did not even realize were strained in the first place. She turned her head to smile at the crescent moon.

“Then thank you.”

It was not until she had so softly spoken those heartfelt words before Puss snapped out of the dazed and probably-creepy-way that he had been staring at her. He cleared his throat and turned to face the moon as well.

“Of course. And,” he felt the need to add, “no more talk of ‘earning my friendship’, Dulcinea. We are friends, are we not? Let us not make it complicated by thinking of it in ‘levels.’”

She dipped her head ever so slightly in a barely noticeable nod. That was enough for him.

“Alright.” He sat straight up, and, without further ado, began playing.

And Dulcinea listened.

“This…song,” he began halfway through the piece, the movement of his fingers over the strings being drawn exactly from muscle memory, “my mamá used to sing it to me when I was but a kitten.” He paused and moved to another fret before he played the next part—the bridge, Dulcinea now knew. “You know by now that I was an orphan as well. I was a very healthy kitty, let me tell you, but there were times when I would get sick.

“And I had few friends. Including one. He was an egg.”

Dulcinea arched a brow.

“But that is a story for another night, because what matters now is this song.” He flashed a silly smile at her. “Where was I? Ah, yes. I would get sick for a few days, a week at most, and all the other kids at the orphanage would ostracize me as if I had the plague. Except for my few friends. And the egg. And of course, my mamá.” He flicked the six strings consecutively to make a short but pleasant glissando before diving right into the piece’s chorus. “She would often make a comment about how I rarely ever caught a cold, but at the times I do, I would scare her to death.” He chuckled at the memory. “I would shiver and convulse quite…‘violently’, she would say, and that the fever I would have would have been enough heat to cook an entire banquet for the orphanage.”

Dulcinea mock-gasped. “Truly?”

He gave her a mock-grave stare in return. “Truly.”

Then he stopped playing the guitar to give way for their bursts of laughter.

“Ah…she would be so worried,” he sighed as his laughter ended. “She would take me in her arms and cradle me. And then,” he smoothly continued playing from where he left it, “and then she would sing me this song until I fell asleep on her bosom.”

The smile on her face lessened to a hesitant frown. “But…I saw you…weep over this song. Why? Is she…?”

Puss looked at her curiously for a moment before his own eyes widened as he finally realized what she was trying to imply. “What? No! Of course not, Dulcinea. Mamá Imelda is very much alive, thank Felina.” Then he calmed down. “It is just that…I miss her.”

It took Dulcinea several moments of uninterrupted silence before she pieced it together.

“Oh. You…left her.”

“I had no choice,” he said, and there was no hurt defensiveness in the words, just exhaustion and resignation. “I was exiled from my home town because of a crime I…unknowingly…had a part of.”

They had run out of words to say, but unlike earlier, they had music to fill their silence this time.

“Puss?” she ventured, her eyes never leaving the moon.

“Yes?”

“Is…is this…” And how beautiful she was, he thought, the way the silver light of the moon caressed her white fur. “…a happy tune for you?”

He snapped back to himself as he decided, _well, that was an interestingly phrased question_.

He smirked at her cheekily, an idea popping in his head. “How about we decide for ourselves?”

She tipped her head to the side. “What do you mean?”

…he stopped playing.

He was feeling daring tonight.

He looked at her, his green eyes shining with the silent plea of a child.

“Hum this song for me.”

“ _Dulcinea!_ ” he screeched, and he scampered over to her and lifted her in his arms. Oh, this was all his fault, this was all his fault…he should not have brought her with him, this mission was too dangerous! If she…if something happened to her, then…he would never be able to forgive himself.

“Please,” he implored her, though her eyes were closed and she was unmoving. For a moment, he feared the worst. “Please tell me that you are okay.”

When she did not so much as twitch a finger, he pulled her to him, hugging her fiercely.

Unbeknownst to him, however, Dulcinea had sneakily cracked an eye open during the hug, and was secretly—guiltily—drawing pleasure from his open display of worry and affection.

Recently, he’d been making her feel all sorts of mischievous feelings that she had never felt before. It made her feel, well, guilty…and a little bit daring.

He’d been rubbing off on her.

“I’m okay,” she finally indulged him.

He gasped and pulled back, looking at her in shock as he held her by the shoulders.

She hummed a happy tune— _his_ happy tune—as if to convince him, then flashed him a grin. “See?”

He was so glad that he burst into laughter and he lifted her in the air. She herself couldn’t help giggling as she spread her arms wide while Puss guided her short flight before finally, he set her to the ground.

They continued to laugh until the wind suddenly hit Puss on the face with his hat. He gracefully slipped it up on his head where it belonged, and she giggled at the flirty stare he then sent her way.

But then…

Then he sighed.

_I…have already lost her._

He put both his paws on her shoulders.

_I would not be able to stand to lose you next._

* * *

**5  
** _lullaby._


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wordcount: 2,926  
> note: if dulcinea could go cuckoo over her favourite author, why not over the love of her life?

She was gulping down the burning contents of her cup and gasped once finished, turning the thing over so its empty hollow knocked with a dull and satisfying _thunk_ against the wooden counter.

Her eyes red-rimmed and nigh brimming with tears from the abuse it suffered through sleepless nights of crying, Dulcinea, San Lorenzo’s sweet and smiling beacon of hope, faith, and love, coarsely growled three words out of her parched and wounded throat.

“One more, Pajuna.”

The barkeeper, upon hearing the softly-spoken yet uncharacteristically curt demand, noticeably paused from wiping one of her spoons before hesitantly moving to reach out to one of her cupboards to place the wooden utensil there.

She turned slightly to the side, enough not to be seen peeking but enough to see what she needed to see. Having seen many people from her past life sink to this state, the sight did not even make her flinch—but she worried. Her golden earring glinted slightly as the cantina’s lights hit it at just the right angle when she moved to bow her head, letting her nut brown bangs cover the severe frown now settling on her mouth.

Because _no_ , she decided.

_This ain’t right._

Dulcinea’s eyes, usually so vivid and alight with life, were now glazed over, looking at nothing, lacking their polished sapphire lustre, dead. Her usually pristine white fur looked dishevelled and ungroomed. She looked restless—the way how she was gripping at the wooden counter as if clinging onto the last threads of reason looked more desperate than it necessarily should. She was breathing too shallowly, and with the way how her usually neat and smoothly-ironed silken dress hung limply from her shoulders, even Pajuna could see from this distance that she was, very worryingly, starting to lose weight.

_This… ain’t right._

“Pajuna,” she snapped, catching her staring, and now the bovine officially flinched at the harshness in her tone. This…was an entirely new level of snappy. This was only something she reserved for _Jack Sprat_. “Did you hear me? I said one. _more_.”

And it wasn’t only Pajuna. Señora Zapata was here too.

Artephius and the Duchess, they weren’t blind.

Señor and Señora Igulademontijo—even Eames and a lot of other nameless faces—could see it so painfully clearly.

Even the town mayor, who regularly stopped by the cantina for a cup of milk before he went to bed, (he says it helps chase away the monsters lurking from the dark corners of his office), would timidly peek over his cup and slightly tremble in terror of this new person living amongst them.

Because this definitely wasn’t Dulcinea.

Not without Puss.

Pajuna sighed. “Look, lassie, I could only go so far as to support you with—with however you want to cope with this…situation, but this—” She pounded a hoof right in front of the girl, startling her out of her drunken stupor, “this is where I draw the line.”

When the cat said nothing, Pajuna softly added, “Talk to me.”

Dulcinea, recovering her resolve, glared up at her friend, her features sharpening once more.

“I’m _okay_ , Pajuna.”

“You’ve drunk twenty-three cups since you got here.”

“I _know_ , but—”

No one could have foreseen her jump onto the counter and grab Pajuna by the pelt on her chest before she went screaming.

“I _intend_ to _pay_ for the _twenty-fourth!_ ”

“How can you keep thinking it’s the money I’m concerned about?” she replied levelly.

Perhaps it was the disturbing calm Pajuna elicited that made the flame in Dulcinea spark and grow and lash out in a wildfire. “Why do you think _I_ need your concern?!”

She was feral. And out of her mind. The San Lorenzan spectators uncertainly looked among themselves, torn between the fact that this was none of their business and the other fact that Dulcinea…

“Dulcinea, you need to snap out of it.”

“Snap out of what? What is _wrong_ with you, Pajuna?! Just give me my drink!”

Señora Zapata officially laid her book down her table. “Dulcinea…”

“No!” she struggled against the arms of the Duchess who had abandoned her goat cheese to help Pajuna deal with the emotionally unbalanced feline clasping at the Scottish bovine’s fur.

“Let me _go!_ ”

“Dulcinea,” said the Duchess, “you have to calm down—”

“What she said, lassie, so how about the bed, huh? I could— _ahck!_ ”

Pajuna staggered from the wild punch she received on her jaw, and looked back up to see Dulcinea, panting and agitated and not-quite-lucid, standing with her feet apart and her fists drawn up in a defensive stance.

“S-Stay back, you can’t make me, you can’t tell me he’s— _he’s_ —”

She was babbling gibberish that was out of context.

“She can’t hear you,” Zapata finally offered, her tone firm and resolute. Pushing her chair back and standing up, she urgently suggested, “We have to do something else.”

“Oh!” the Duchess’ eyes widened, and she reached back for a soul jar and put it on the designated place on the magical gear she pulled out of nowhere. “Yes, I think I have some sleeping spells that might work! Now hold her steady for me— _oof!_ ”

The Duchess went flying through the air and hit the wall on the far side of the cantina, having been struck on the chest by the wooden chair Dulcinea had flung in her direction.

The San Lorenzan crowd tremblingly parted to form a path for Dulcinea, who was now angrily stomping towards the Duchess as rebellious tears leaked out of her bloodshot eyes.

“Don’t you even _think about trying to control me like I don’t deserve to have a say in this!_ ”

“E-Everyone, c-c-calm down,” Mayor Temeroso finally stood up, albeit with shaking knees. “I am sure fighting will not resolve any—”

“ _Why,_ you filthy _cat_ ,” the Duchess shot back, completely ignoring the mayor as she got up on her feet, “You’re never getting better if you insist to be like this!”

_“Who said I wanted to get better?!”_

“Ha! So, _what_ , are you planning on sulking over that stupid playboy forever? Then be my guest!”

“Duchy, don’t say that!” pled Artephius. “Dulcie, don’t fight please?”

“He _left_ us!” she roared, whirling around to face him, then everyone else. “Why can’t anyone of you understand?! Why is it like I’m the only one who seems to care?! Why am—why am I—the only one— _the_ —”

Her lip trembled and her weakening knees were begging for her to give in, but by some miraculous strength left in her, she managed to remain standing in the midst of this mess.

_…but why? Why am I the only one suffering?_

“Dulcinea…” Pajuna had walked out of her counter and was standing from behind her. “I’m sorry for this.”

“What are you…” The question trailed off as she realized that she was being lifted into the air by two women far larger than she is. “No! Let me go! Pajuna!”

“Hold her that way,” Señora Zapata instructed.

Pajuna nodded then turned to the Eldritch witch in front of them, who only scoffed at the sight of the struggling cat.

Frowning, the barkeep urged, “ _Oi_.”

The witch only sighed and returned the nod, but as she reared back and set her gear to the lowest possible setting of inflicting pain and got ready to fire—

_“NO!”_

Dulcinea had shut her eyes close to brace herself for the attack, but in that small space of time, most of the cantina’s candlelights have been snuffed out by a hidden force as quick as a shadow, and before they knew it…

The Duchess, Señora Zapata, and Pajuna have all staggered back from the attacks they’ve received on their neck, wrist, and jaw respectively, releasing Dulcinea from their clutches. She landed on the floor on her knees, her silken dress pooling around her—then, gasping for air, she put both paws on the floor, as if that were the only way to keep supporting herself up.

Amidst the cacophony of roaring voices and manic screams and frantic people trying to get other people to calm down—

“Pray tell, Felina,” drawled that all-too familiar voice, with exactly the same accent and exactly the same roughness as they last heard it from what seemed so long ago, the heel of his boot scuffing against the wooden floor. “Have you all _lost_ _it?_ What were you going to do to her? What is going on here?”

“Like the jerk who broke her heart in the first place has any right to know,” the Duchess mumbled under her breath as she grumpily dusted off some imaginary dirt from the silver surface of her gear.

His green eyes widened like saucers, seeming genuinely disturbed and confused about the accusation that she’d just sprouted out of her mouth. “What…are you…talking about? I—”

“And now _you_ decide to show up?” Pajuna calmly deadpanned, her arms crossed over her chest. “How _dare_ you?”

“Get out of this town, right now, Puss in the Boots,” Señora Zapata spat, “before I wrangle every limb out of that small body of yours and feed you to the maggots!”

“W-Wait!” Puss stepped back, holding his paws up as if that was the only way to convince them that he would not use any weapons on them and that he meant them no harm. “Please, give me a chance to clear this misunderstanding—“

“P-Puss?” Dulcinea’s soft voice was a break of novelty amid the contesting mix of angry voices. “Is that…you?”

“Dulcinea,” he let out, and Pajuna and Señora Zapata hesitantly parted to give him way. He knelt before her and took her paw in his. “Calm down. I am here.”

“No,” she recoiled, taking back her paw and putting it on her chest as she caved into herself. “Just another…figment. Another dream. Just like the book says. Chase away the sorrow, for sorrow always will…make you see things that aren’t…real…”

Shock descended upon Puss’ eyes as the meaning of her words sunk into his core.

_See things…that aren’t real?_

_Just ‘another’ figment?_

_What happened to her while I was gone?_

Before he could think more of it, however—

Dulcinea cried out in pain as she slumped forward, but Puss caught her.

_“Dulcinea!”_

All heads then swivelled to glare at the Duchess, the tip of her magic gear still smoking from her most recent shot.

“What?” she shrugged it off, managing to sound innocent. “That was just a sleeping spell. And you all heard what she was saying—she’s _gone!_ The cat needs the sleep. She’s going to thank me later.”

The effects were not immediate, though. Puss still felt her paws clutch at the fur on his chest as she struggled to get up just so her eyes could lock with his.

“You…you were gone for two months.”

He had prepared for this. “I am sorry.”

Then his head jerked sidewards at the force of her slap.

He closed his eyes. He had prepared for this, too. “And I fully deserve that.”

“You are _real_ ,” he could hear her say in wonder as if she didn’t even hear him, and he felt her paw creeping up the fur on his face so she could cup his cheek.

Well, aforementioned cheek still stung like a thousand bees had pricked on it, but he guessed it could be worse. Chuckling uncomfortably, he intoned, “Ah…well…”

What happened next, however, was something he had not prepared for. Because, before he knew it, Dulcinea had crawled up on him and took the opportunity of his open mouth to kiss him.

Startled, Puss scrambled to get his elbows support him, but then even they gave in and he had no choice but to lie down on the floor, her weight pushing him down.

The San Lorenzans surrounding them either hid their lips behind their mouths or turned their heads away from the scene they knew they shouldn’t be witnessing.

But then Puss broke out of his daze and pulled her away, needing to breathe. “ _Dulcinea_.” He said her name as if that itself were the air he needed to fill his gasping lungs. He knew he was blushing red from underneath his fur, but that wasn’t what mattered at the moment. “This is—I—you have to—“

When he looked down at the white feline snuggled up against his chest, he realized that the effects of the sleeping spell had finally taken over.

…

Not able to deal with the unbearable silence afterward, Puss had elected to bring her to her room in the orphanage.

He dreaded the morning. Everyone would be gossiping about the little scene they created at the Cow and Moone Cantina by then, and the mere fact that he did not look forward to being the centre of everyone’s attention spoke volumes of how so, so tired he was.

He had been through hell and back the eternity he was gone.

By the time he had returned to the cantina, everyone demanded answers. The women—Pajuna, the Duchess, Señora Zapata—were especially livid, and kept calling him a jerk and heartbreaker and an insensitive piece of garbage who deserved nothing less than a crucifixion (the last being from Zapata, obviously.) And he supposed the verbal lashing was only fair, considering the last hurtful words _he_ had uttered the last time he had been here two months ago.

 _“I am in love with_ her _, Dulcinea! How presumptuous of you to think that I reciprocate any feelings you have towards me. Ha! Your naivety had always been such a laughable thing.” Making his way out the door, “I have decided to leave you._ All _of you.”_

He was lucky the Sphinx had even let him in the town uneaten. 

She…was an old flame. A pretty little grey wildcat who practiced sorcery. Her name was Catherine, and he thought that he had made it clear to her a long, long time ago, that she was simply _not_ his type.

That made her rebellious and angry, though, and he learned that she had been chasing for him since then, wanting to force him to love her.

Finally, she found him in San Lorenzo, but his downfall was that he _forgot_ that they even had a history, which made him put his guard down.

As a result of his carelessness, the despicable minx succeeded in putting him under a spell that made him _believe_ he was in love with her, fooling everyone else—himself included—in San Lorenzo.

He had been under the effects of that vile witchcraft when those words made their way out of his tongue— _“I have decided to leave all of you”_ —but no one had even seemed to realize the entire truth of the matter until it was too late.

Until it was two months later that he realized…

He was not where he belonged.

So then he made his way to return to San Lorenzo, but the state he found it in—the state he found Dulcinea in—was not something he could have ever anticipated.

After everyone was satisfied of the tale of his travels with that obsessive lovesick witch, Puss voiced his concerns to Pajuna, while seated back on his usual stool with his usual leche on her wooden counter.

“Pajuna, my friend…” He flinched at his careless usage of the word ‘friend’—he had been so used to addressing the cow that way, it oftentimes only slipped through his mouth without his notice—but he relaxed when Pajuna did not snap at him for daring to presume that they still had their friendship. Even after all he had done, no matter how unknowingly…

“I have never seen Dulcinea so disoriented. So…out of it.” He looked at his own reflection staring back at him from inside his cup of milk. Then he gripped it tight, his claws peeking out of his fingers as he ferally flared up at the cow. He could not help it. He was tired and worried and concerned and misunderstood and he was the reason that this mess even happened in the first place—but he also had the right to be angry when it came to that one person he cherished the most.

“I never thought you would have been the type to encourage her to consume alcohol,” he drawled. “The substance is harmful to humans—to cats more so. You could have killed her!”

This late in the night, the cantina had already been deserted by most of the people present earlier, save for a few patrons who could only stare up from their drinks to witness their town hero create another scene.

But Puss could not care less.

Pajuna was as calm as Puss was seething. She had dealt with these sorts of situations so many times in her past life, it no longer surprised her.

“Of course I knew that,” she scoffed, “She’s _Dulcinea_ , laddie, she wouldn’t be able to handle it. And besides, I wouldn’t be so careless.”

“Then what in the nine toes of Felina have you been giving her?”

She arched an eyebrow at him. “Ginger ale.”

He erupted in triumph and pointed an accusatory finger at her. “Ha! I knew it! Ale! You have been—giving her…ginger… _ale?_ ” He withered. At the way Pajuna only crossed her arms at him with an impressive deadpan plastered on her face, he knew he had hit a dead-end.

Ginger ale was not even alcoholic.

“Exactly,” Pajuna asserted. “It’s not the ale that made her ‘out of it’, Puss. It’s you.”

* * *

**6**  
_intoxication._


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wordcount: 1,952
> 
> note: low on content again. my sincerest apologies. perhaps a double update to make up for it. or maybe a new fsl chapter. to those who might’ve already seen this on my tumblr, i'd just like to let you know i edited it a little. 
> 
> also, jacarandas remind me of dulcinea.

"Why do you wear clothes?"

He knew by how she instantly froze mid-flip of the page of her book that he should have just kept his stupid mouth shut.

"Um...I...I don't know?" Her voice wavered. She uncertainly put down the page so it met with its other friends. Then she turned her eyes to him.

"Why don't _you?_ "

Good question.

"Ah..."

She ( _adorably_ , Puss noted, right before instantly shooting the intrusive thought down to hell) cocked her head to the side in curiosity. "Why do you ask, by the way?"

"E-Erm..." He stood there uncomfortably, left wondering how the tables have been so dramatically swivelled so that _he_ was suddenly the one being interrogated for answers. He scratched at the back of his neck and was fiercely trying his best to look at absolutely anywhere but her probing eyes. Darn it. Why did her eyes have to…be _so_...

"I, er. Simply find it strange, that is all."

"Huh? But…”

Her brow creased.

“Why?"

How she managed to pack so much innocence and commanding interrogation in that one simple word, he knew that he would never know.

"Eh…it is just that..." He really very _really_ should have just kept his mouth shut. "I have met other female cats. Other male cats as well," he added quickly, when Dulcinea's eyes widened a tad. He made a mental note to gloat on it later, because now the embarrassment he was feeling left no room for taking pride in the possibility that Dulcinea actually can feel jealous because of him. "And it is not like as felines, we...have anything to hide. Like the humans...do..."

Felina. He had no idea why he did not think this through. He had simply barged into the nearly empty classroom like the utter disgrace he was and blurted out the question like he had lost his mind. To be fair though, it _had_ been plaguing him for days now, and if he did not find a way to satiate his curiosity, well.

He would lose his head.

"I don't have anything to hide," she said, breaking their awkward moment of silence.

_Huh?_

"You—you...do _not?_ "

Then he thought, of course she does not, you floundering hypocrite, you of all cats KNOW the female feline anatomy better than anyone.

"Why bother with the clothing, then...?"

He kicked himself for attaching that completely unnecessary follow-up question. _Why?_ Really? He was asking a woman _why_ she wore how she liked to wear herself? That was none of his business! Really, he should have thought that it was none of his business from the very beginning. Had the gentlemanliness he was so notorious for been singlehandedly dissolved into oblivion by his morbid _curiosity_ on a woman's clothing?

Perhaps he completely forgot that it was a lady he was talking to here?

Had he no _shame?_

Before he continued on mentally booting his own arse for even initiating this stupid conversation, Dulcinea said, "Well, I guess...living here my whole life, without any interaction with the outside world…or any other cat, for that matter…I thought that wearing clothes was the normal thing to do. So I began to sew up dresses, to...fit in. Señora Zapata," she placed her book on the desktop near her and jumped from her chair so she could twirl around in place, letting her dress balloon out a little. "She helped me create this one I'm wearing. I was the one who designed it." Her eyes were glittering blue when she looked up to meet his. "Do you like it?"

It took him exactly three point five seconds flat before he snapped out of his daze and realized that she was expecting an answer out of him. "D-Do _I_ like it, you asked me?"

She blinked. "Yes?"

"Ah..." He ran a paw through the fur on his upper left arm and looked the other way. "Of course I like it. Why would you think I..."

"You said you find it strange."

He winced. That one was completely his fault. She caught him right in the middle of the trap he made for himself.

How stupid.

"...Do you wish to see me unclothed?"

 _What?_ "N-no!" his mouth blurted, against the very rebellious _yesyesyesyesyes_ chanting of his brain. (It seemed as if for all his scorning of most of humankind as disrespectful degenerates, male brains worked the same way regardless of species.)

"Why not? Like you..." He was looking down at her boots until the lilac silk just slid down her body to form a blossom-like pile on the floor and he _knew_ he was eternally grateful for the fact that he had his ginger fur to hide the deplorable blush he felt was spreading on his face from her.

"I have nothing to hide."

He raised his head so his eyes grazed her body from her boots to her torso to finally, her eyes.

And that was when he saw it. Truly.

He saw how strong she was. How her beauty lied in simplicity. He saw how her naivety was not of gullibility but of grace, her innocence not of ignorance but of choice—of choice to see the world in light. He saw how he paled against her in a match of strength, not in physicality but in self-belief, and that her courage rivalled his, not in terms of recklessly charging towards a bull but in terms of setting one’s soul free instead of locked up in a rib cage to forever hide oneself for fear of rejection. That was because she had no such fear, perhaps her purity allowed for no such stain, and suddenly, upon that realization he felt a deep, profound sensation within him roil—the desire to protect her and keep her this way, to keep her from the outside world and the outside world’s evil eyes, even though he knew she must be strong enough to protect herself. She wore her heart on her sleeve, fearless of judgment and undaunted by probing eyes, and even if someone committed against her a slight, she would accept them, she would embrace them, this was simply how she was. Whereas everyone would push everyone away believing the world was a dangerous place and that trust was a hard thing to earn, Dulcinea, Dulcinea would give away herself to literally every person she’d meet even on a marketplace crawling with thieves, believing that exposing her vulnerabilities was what made her strong. She was a flower that has broken her chains off the jacaranda tree and danced along the wind, unafraid of freedom and to selflessly sow the gift of the fragrance of her life. Of life.

He knew he had no right to and Felina please forgive him for being inappropriately avaricious, but it was innate in him to feel, at that moment, possessive and protective of this woman who had probably not even yet realized her own beauty. Possessive because he knew he needed someone to teach him how to be like this, to be fearless, and that he was absolutely certain he would never meet another diamond as sharply polished as she was; protective because he knew that beauty like this could not be resisted by eyes wishing nothing upon her but dirt, because he knew she would be something thieves and prurient men and all manner of degenerates would think to philander, far more valuable as she was than a thousand chests of gold and pearl and jewel.

He knew at that moment that he would do everything, absolutely everything…to keep her this way.

"I have seen enough." And indeed he has. In truth, he had many women—and on occasion, men—boldly undress before him, in the metaphorical sense, but Dulcinea…it threw him off, completely, that she would do this not out of the selfishness of desire but of simple generosity. The women he had met back in the past would not have missed this opportunity to try something on him afterward, but she...she simply stood there. Graceful. Elegant. Innocent, like an angel. This was her beauty. It was honestly a refreshing splash of cold air on his face.

This was what made her her. Who was he to impose species norms on her, when he himself was a rebel?

He was a cat who donned _boots_ , for crying out loud.

She unhurriedly picked the silk up from the floor to wear them again. "Do you really think this makes me...different...from all the other cats you've met?"

He looked the other way and tapped at the hilt of the sword on his belt as he chuckled. "Well, honestly, yes."

The silence that followed made him look back at her again, but he was only met by a hurt expression that told him that she took it the other way.

"N-No!" he blurted the word for the second time in five minutes. This...was severely unfair. Why was he the only one being repeatedly flustered by each turn in the conversation? Alright _fine_ , maybe he deserved it for starting this in the first place, but still. "I do not mean it that way, Dulcinea. Really, I should not have asked you that stupid question about your clothes in the first place. I was out of the line."

She was strange, and funny, and most of the time simply downright _weird_ , but he would not have her any other way.

Her eyes widened. There were so, so many things she could express with those large sapphire eyes of hers, it baffled him every single time. "Really? Why?"

He burst out laughing. "Well...because it was a ridiculous question! It is stupid of me to only realize this now, honestly." He was shaking his head. " _I_ wear a hat and a belt and a pair of boots, which is not at all viewed as normal in the feline world. So I, of all people, do not have the right to call you out for being different. No one does. I am sorry."

"It's okay. You were simply curious behind the story of my fashion sense. And besides," she grinned, not quite so innocently now, "I'd like that favour returned."

"Huh?" he sputtered dumbly as he watched her approach him.

"I'd like you," she said, once right in front of him, pointing a finger to each article of his attire as she enumerated them, "to tell me the story _of_ your hat, _and_ your belt, _and_ your boots." She leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest, looking satisfied. "It would only be fair, wouldn't you say?"

Ah...he blinked back in surprise. So, this was what she wanted? Information?

He grinned, impressed.

Where had this angel learned to be so deceptive?

Lowly, he drawled, "Fine, you sly little tigress." She arched an eyebrow at him. He rolled his eyes good-naturedly and reverted to his normal voice. "Fine, I shall tell you later. Anyway, I came here to pick you up for lunch. Come." He offered her a paw and she gigglingly put hers over his. He then led her out of the classroom with him.

"Let us be different. Together."

The instant he opened the door, however—

Señora Zapata, Pajuna, Señora Igualdemontijo, and a couple of other women in town he never chanced to know the name of, yelped as they suddenly spilled onto the floor and tumbled ungracefully on top of each other before the two cats. The spies groaned and rubbed their necks uncomfortably, then nervously chuckled when they met Puss’ green eyes tersely staring down at them.

"Very cunning," he dryly commented, and Dulcinea could only giggle as he led the both of them out of there. Let them talk, he thought. Let them gossip.

Dulcinea need only wear herself.

* * *

**7**  
_jacaranda._


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wordcount: 3,325  
> notes: ugh, i enjoyed writing this, despite or because of the misandric undertones. 
> 
> disclaimer: I do not share señora zapata’s view of men in this fic, although i do shamelessly admit that her lividity could be such a delight to write. 
> 
> warning: there’re a couple of minor swear words, though in my defence, i thought they were called for. 
> 
> this ficlet occurs around the first episodes of the first season. also, i don’t know zapata’s real, full name, but Sra. Esmeralda Velasquez-Zapata had a nice ring to it. plus, Esmeralda and Esme as the names of a mother and daughter sounded too cute for me to pass.

Señora Zapata despised Puss in the Boots' guts with the blinding flare of a thousand dying suns.

It was from the moment her perpetually critical eyes landed on that suspiciously leather-clad tabby feline when she first felt that wild hatred erupt from her chest.

And _boy_ had it erupted.

From those strikingly _invasive_ green eyes, to that irritatingly _knavish_ smirk, to that infuriatingly _arrogant_ posture, _and_ maddeningly self-conceited attire—let's not forget that swollen head of his, filled with self-importance so exaggerated she wouldn't mind to have it burst and splatter across the planet just so she could _dance_ on the darn bastard's pool of blood—Señora Zapata was convinced that this, this rat, this cuss, this persistently obnoxious _vermin_ , absolutely did _not_ deserve the tiniest shred of the benefit of her doubt.

He gave her no reason to. He strutted around her town like _he_ was the one who owned it—like she didn't see him for the true, vile monster that he was within!

He was danger. She had read numerous books about this. He had to have worn that sword around his belt in the first place _because_ there was a reason. She did not know what reason it was—and no, for the life of her she was _not_ curious, no she was _not_ —but she was entirely convinced that if he was a person skilled in fighting _then_ he must have been up to no good during the life he led prior to his arrival in San Lorenzo.

He was an outsider. He was a spawn of the place where villainy thrived and greed reigned—the outside world was a dirty, dirty place with people incessantly breeding their own dirty kind to fill the earth and sprawl over its surface to greedily and grubbily grab everything they could with their greedy, grubby, grabby little paws.

He was a scoundrel. A _thief_. His inborn greed had destroyed their protection spell in the first place. It was _his._ _stupid_. _greed!_ Why she was the only one who could starkly see him for who—no, _what_ he is, she could never understand. Everyone had to suffer from _his_ sin, but one way or another, _everyone_ seemed to so blindly push that fact aside and actually _liked_ him despite all that he did to them. The kids. Pajuna.

Dulcinea.

It was infinitely bad enough that he had found their hidden mystic town in the first place because he was _stalking_ her like the sneaky creep he was, but then he had to disguise his disgusting stalker moves as an act of 'chivalry' because he 'worried' for her 'safety'.

The gall.

The _gall_.

He had the nerve to say he only wanted to protect her from the thieves when it was people like _him_ who everyone should be protected from. Never mind having entered the town because of that old 'only people with good hearts could enter' rule-thing—BAH! What did Dulcinea know? The naïve, gullible, ridiculously innocent girl knew _nothing_. She could practically see it, how Dulcinea _poured_ her entire heart into trusting that booted feline Lothario—even after the many, many times she had warned her about his potential history as nothing but a mangy little skirt chaser.

But then oh, Dulcinea, kindness personified, would proceed to lecture her about not judging a book by the cover, about how it was unfair to put Puss in Boots to such a deep low when they had barely gotten to know him for less than a day. It was unbelievable, that naivety! If Zapata did not judge the book by the cover, then they would be marching on blinded and unarmed when they do finally decide to explore its vile contents. _Someone_ had to scorn him, and hate him, and doubt him, and if it had to be her, then so be it.

And less than a day of knowing him was enough. _More_ than enough. Did Dulcinea not _see_ how Puss advanced on her, getting all assertive when taking her paw or touching her shoulder or _smirking_ at her in a severely inappropriate manner whenever she was _not_ looking? That kind of advancement when he knew Dulcinea for barely _less_ than a day spoke volumes of how such a slimy salamander he was. Zapata just wished she wouldn't be so blinded, but Dulcinea trusted him far too much for her own good. Sweet mother of San Lorenzo…it would even be foolish for Zapata to _not_ see how painfully obvious it was, that Dulcinea actually _liked_ him. Which was not. good.

She even had the slightest suspicion that maybe _she_ was the one who had purposefully led him to San Lorenzo in the first place.

And that made him a bad apple. Dulcinea could never fathom what it was like, the devious machinations of those who belong and have been spawned from the outside world; she never had to learn how to place distrust onto those who deserve nothing _but_ , and nor does she deserve the heartbreak of having her trust shattered into a thousand little irredeemable shards.

So Señora Zapata had decided that she would be the one to distrust Puss in the Boots for her.

Puss in the Boots was a danger, an outsider, a scoundrel and a thief—and, as if that set of credentials didn't degrade him enough as to make him the lowest of the low…

He just _had_ to be Spanish as well.

Not to be such a bitter misandrist specific to the men of Spain, but that was _exactly_ what made him such a real live danger to Dulcinea.

Men in general—the Spanish men more so—oh, they were the absolute _worst_.

They were a bunch of womanizing flirts who thought of their opposite sex as fair damsels in distress in desperate need of their amorous overtures. They thought themselves to be so handsome and charming when all Zapata wanted to do with their face was scrub them against a concrete wall if only to get rid of the smug smirks that never seemed to leave their filthy, filthy mouths that have most likely stained the white purity of one too many girls. They looked at women as objects, as prizes to win, as trophies to earn, as another point to add to their personal scoreboard, to be displayed as a proud proof of their damn _masculinity_.

Señora Esmeralda Velasquez-Zapata, having divorced the vicious man—no, _rat_ —who stripped her of her maiden name, knew these facts far _better_ than anyone.

The man she thought she loved had discarded her the moment he'd finished exploiting her.

He had _exploited_ her, like she was a goddamn well of _resource_.

She had gone through a terrible heartbreak, but that single tragic stage of her life had only forged her to become the iron woman she was now.

"Puss in the Boots, stay away from her."

"Puss in the Boots, stop ogling her."

"Puss in the Boots, I will _kill_ you if you touch her so familiarly again."

"Puss in the Boots."

"Puss in the Boots."

"PUSS IN THE BOOTS, I _SAID_ PAWS _OFF_ OF HER!"

…she just did not want the same thing to happen to Dulcinea.

It was one night as she was having her late night leche at Pajuna's cantina, seated on her usual spot with a lit candle on her table when she suddenly felt the presence of someone else taking the seat across her. She was only vaguely aware of his presence though, because she was far too busy reading halfway through her thousand-page romance novel. Oh, sweet, romantic Arturo had just been about to ask Genevieve to a candlelit dinner when suddenly—

A paw reached out to the top of her book and attempted to push it down to the table, revealing the whiskered face of a distressed Puss in Boots making desperate eye-contact with her.

" _Señora_ ," he ground the word out as if for the thousandth time, "please, listen to me. No more of this. I—"

She snapped the book shut, forcing Puss to quickly draw back his paw with a wince.

"What do you want?" she demanded.

He hesitated for a moment, shrinking under her withering gaze, but then he straightened up and mustered his courage with him.

"Why do you dislike me so?"

"I do not dislike you."

His face brightened a tad. "Really?"

"I _despise_ you," she spat, and she saw his face fall before she decided to get up from her seat and proceeded to walk to the doors.

Jumping from his seat and dashing forward to block her path, he stood in front of her, arms spread out wide. The sincerity in his expression pled for her to stop a moment and hear him out.

"Señora, _please_ ," he implored, "I have been trying my hardest to gain everyone's favour by proving that I mean you no harm, but no matter what I do, you—you are the only one who remains to…treat me with…such hostility. Please, tell me. What can I do to amend whatever irredeemable evil you think I have done to you?"

 _Well you abandoned me_ , was the instinctual reply, and she was surprised to realize that those words had actually been burning at the tip of her tongue for _weeks_ now. She bit them back. She was consciously trying to avoid looking at his cavalier hat and those dusty boots and that leather belt from where his fencing sword hung, including his rough voice and tantalizing accent and green eyes and—and—

Ugh.

It was hard.

Because everything, almost _everything_ about this despicable cat…

Puss in Boots reminded her of Antonio Zapata.

No. She had to constantly remind herself that this cat actually was not Antonio Zapata, lest she lost herself in a rage that had been lying dormant for years and killed him. No, now was not the time for such a drastic measure.

Not yet at least.

" _Ha_ ," she spat the word like it was bile in her mouth, "Listen to yourself, asking what you had ever done, like _you_ are the one who is so _innocent!_ "

She attempted to walk past him again, but again he blocked her way.

"That…that thing with the coin," he said, and he sounded as if he was in pain. "I am sorry. I am sorry. I have done your town harm, destroyed your safety, your security—and this is why I am putting myself forward to protect you with my life. I am no replacement for the protection spell you had previously, but the reason I am doing this is because I recognize—I recognize that what I had done…please forgive me. It was a mistake."

"No," she contended, " _You_ are the mistake."

He flinched.

…too harsh?

Well, she could not care less. She walked past him again. She was a little disappointed that he did not stop her this time, but as she reached the doors and took one step out into the night—

"I would like to prove myself to you," he called to her from behind.

She stopped in her tracks.

Closed her eyes.

If he thought that showing off was the only way to please a woman's heart…

"I am not impressed by _show-offs_ , Puss in the Boots," were her final words, and from that time on, she had never seen nor heard of Puss in Boots again.

Perhaps it was because she'd been avoiding him. And in turn, he had begun to avoid her too.

And perhaps, that was for the best.

As long as he kept out of trouble and did his job in protecting the town right, she never did want him to show his face to her ever again.

Until one day…

"Dulcinea?" she said, knocking on the door of her room. "Dulcinea, it is time for breakfast."

Dulcinea had recently asked her a favour to wake her up every day at the break of dawn. That wasn't usually the case—she was perfectly capable of waking up early on her own—so it intrigued Zapata a little, why Dulcinea suddenly needed an alarm knock on her door from then on. But she never did ask her why. If Dulcinea didn't tell her, then that meant she didn't want to tell her, and Señora Zapata was civil enough to know when to step in, and when to step back.

When Dulcinea didn't answer her usual "Coming!" or "Okay," or even just anything resembling a word embedded in a sleepy yawn, Señora Zapata decided that that warranted her enough reason to step in.

Dulcinea never did lock her door. She insisted that it was always open for anyone who wanted to approach her. She was trusting, so naively trusting that way.

Zapata pushed the door open.

"Dulcinea, you—"

Then she paused.

Her bed was empty.

_Empty._

She marched out of her room and down the stairs of the orphanage, her trembling fists curled tight by her sides as an old anger in her pounding heart rose up to boil her very blood.

She saw this coming.

She had seen this coming from _a thousand miles away_.

"PUSS IN THE BOOOOOTS!"

She didn't care if it was early morning. She didn't care if everybody rioted against her for startling the town awake. She didn't care if she'd just barged onto Pajuna's cantina and nearly slammed the wooden doors out of their hinges from the force she'd inflicted on them and went stomping up the stairs like a monster ready to rip off the head of anyone who dared stand on her way, because Puss in Boots, oh, he would get it, he would _get_ what it's like to be stormed by the wrath of—

" _What are you doing to Dul—"_

She gasped and took a step back.

No.

No.

This—this can't be—

_No!_

"Oi, Zapata!" she heard Pajuna call from downstairs, but not really.

Her hearing sounded like her ears had been plugged in, and everything from the outside world drowned into the mad, stark raving _mad_ ranting of her brain—

_He's gone, Dulcinea's gone, the vile lizard must have stolen her in the middle of the night while everyone slept and took advantage of her and—and—_

She could not bear to think it.

"Zapata, what's goin' on up there?" Pajuna's voice was nearer now. "What's this racket about this early in—"

Zapata shouldered past Pajuna as she dashed down the stairs, each heavy footfall a resounding _thunk_ against the wood.

_He's gone._

_He kidnapped Dulcinea._

When she burst out of the cantina's doors, she was met by San Lorenzans blearily rubbing their eyes and yawning and stretching and walking out of their homes, asking what in the world all the shouting was about.

_He could have hurt her, or sold her, or—or worse—that vile philanderer might have—_

'I would like to prove myself to you,' he had said, and now all Señora Zapata could think of was 'Well, you've proven yourself EVERYTHING I thought you to be and _WORSE_ —'

"…ra Zapata? Señora Zapata!" an orange blur…a cat-shaped orange blur…Puss in the Boots?...was speaking to her, a worried urgency rumbling underneath his words. "How can I help you? What is the matter? Why are—"

Once she'd finally processed that _this is it, this is that vermin who deserved to die_ , it clicked.

"You," she shrilled, and she grabbed the cat by the scruff of his neck and slammed his entire body against the wall and kept him fixed over there with a hand on his neck.

"What have you _done_ to Dulcinea?!"

"I—I—" Shock. Confusion. Disbelief. He desperately tried to remove her hand from his neck with his small paws, but to no avail. "Dul—Dulcinea's—she—"

"What have you done to her?! SPIT IT OUT!"

"I have—done—n…nothing…"

She felt pain burst out of her knuckles where she was suddenly forced to let go of his neck, and _then_ her shoulders as someone violently shook her awake.

"Esmeralda, snap out of it," commanded Pajuna, and the fact that Pajuna used her first name effectively did yank her out of her stupor. "Puss did nothing wrong! You're gettin' way too ahead of yourself, princess. This paranoia's gettin' out of hand!"

Her breathing evened out. Her vision cleared. When she finally had her senses gathered about her…

She saw Pajuna, peering at her worriedly. The townspeople, gathered around them. And Puss…

He was on the floor on his knees with a paw pressed onto the ground and the other on his chest, his fur sticking out on ends and his breathing erratic. Everything looked the same about him, those same boots, that same belt and sword, those green eyes, but—

Something was missing.

Her voice soft, she weakly demanded, "Why are you not wearing your hat, Puss in the Boots?"

…And that was when she realized it.

Puss looked up at her.

Without that damned hat, it was not Antonio she saw.

For the first time in what seemed like forever, she saw _Puss in Boots_.

"I…este…my…hat?"

He was dumfounded.

Her fists fell as tired hands by her sides.

"Where is Dulcinea?" Her anger had already drained.

"I…I found her asleep by the boulder." Puss got up and dusted the dirt off his chest. "Where she usually read her bedtime stories to the flowers. And I thought she would find the stone floor cold, so I…"

"Oh, hello, hello!" someone interrupted, and all turned their heads to face the source of that angelic voice whose sweet, dulcet joy had already become so familiar to everyone. "Good morning, San Lorenzo! I see everyone's gathered out here today. What's the occasion, Pajuna? Señora Zapata? I was awakened by some sort of racket, and I thought…"

Dulcinea had walked out of the alley that led to the place Puss had just said—so the cat was not lying—and was now looking up at her and Pajuna.

Zapata could not help but feel a violent blush—of anger? embarrassment? shame?—spreading over her cheeks when she saw Dulcinea holding Puss' leather cavalier hat with both her white paws.

"Dulcinea," greeted Puss, saving both Pajuna and Zapata when they came up blank for answers, "Buenos días también. I hope you slept well?"

"Oh, I wouldn't have slept so well if it wasn't for your hat." She returned it to him and he slipped it back up his head. "That was so thoughtful of you. It made everything so much warmer. Thank you."

He smiled. "It is nothing. Breakfast?"

"Of course!"

He turned. "Pajuna?"

"R-Right, comin' right up," replied the cow, the mention of her name snapping her out of her daze. She rushed back into her cantina to manage what she had to manage—now that the whole town was up, she had work to do.

"Señora Zapata," said Puss, turning slightly to the side to give her a careful, tentative gaze, "ah…would you care to join us?"

_I…almost strangled you._

She did not want to ponder the possibilities of whether or not she intended to do it with the intention to kill.

… _How could you so easily forgive that?_

"I…"

She knew she should accept.

She knew she should join them, just to monitor this rascal and make sure he does not do any harm to Dulcinea.

"You should go," she said instead, much to Puss' surprise—but then she added, "Do not fool around."

She abruptly turned around and stomped back to the orphanage, making sure to slam the doors shut so the bang carried out across the plaza.

She spent the entire day rethinking everything she'd ever believed in, considered the fact that maybe, a scoundrel or a thief or a Spaniard though he was, he was not like…not all men was like Antonio Zapata.

That perhaps… 

Puss in the Boots did deserve the benefit of her doubt.

* * *

**8**  
_prejudice._


End file.
